Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
ARLO
Wood smoke threads the air, mixing with the bitter earth of brewed coffee. I didn’t sleep last night.
Couldn’t.
Not with danger circling this ranch. Circling her.
I try to shake the last thought from my mind. But it’s the kind that sticks, takes hold, maybe doesn’t let go.
Thick, raven-black hair. Heart-shaped face. That imperious cowgirl expression.
Fuck.
Outside, fog clings low to the ground. As if the clouds have dipped down for a visit.
I scan the treeline, narrowing my eyes to squint through the white veil. In the distance, a great ancient barn looms like a shadow, weather-beaten and gravity-dragged. Half collapsed, but stubborn.
Like its mistress.
My breath comes in puffs as I walk, only subsiding when I enter the livestock-warmed stables. Nutty feed and oiled leather greet my nostrils. In the corner, I find the new little charge, lying in the thick pile of straw where I deposited him.
He tips his head up weakly, big black eyes with a fringe of long, thick lashes assessing me.
“Made it through the night,” I croon gently, entering the stall, a bottle of warm milk in tow.
“Need to get you on your feet so that I can feed you,” I urge, nudging the baby up. But each time I lift him, give him a moment to steady himself, his big-kneed legs wobble and then collapse back into the grass.
Finally, resigned, I take a seat next to him, pulling him across my lap. Not ideal, but maybe the milk will help. My thumb feels wet and strange in his mouth, but then his tongue works, and he takes the bottle.
Back leaned against the stall, a warm baby in my lap, the soft swish of tails and breathing of horses around me. I keep my hand steady, making sure I’m not tipping the baby’s head too high as my mind wanders.
Sirens. Sand. Men down.
The scar running the length of my shoulder twinges, an electric pulse of memory. Some men make war with guns and tanks. Others with fences and cattle.
The calf finishes with one more suck, nodding off in my lap. Do I burp it? A vision of me with the calf over my shoulder fills my mind. I can’t help but laugh at the preposterousness. Or that of being here as an undercover cowboy mountain man.
By way of Los Angeles, then Sacramento. Shit.
Burping or not, the little guy’s fast asleep on my legs. I manage to wrangle my cell phone, putting in a call to the boss.
He answers on the first ring. “Kincaid.”
“Sheriff McLeod.”
“Things going okay?”
“Good as can be expected,” I answer, staring down at the black Angus baby.
“That snoring I hear in the background?”
“I’m in the stables.”
He grunts. “Fucking up yet?”
Three words. My boss in a nutshell. “Probably. Not really cut out for this country shit.”
“Better get used to it, city slicker.”
Enough with the pleasantries. “Made contact yesterday around 0800 hours. A quick interview and the subject hired me. Access to the ranch house and property. Subject complaining about neighbor trespassing and violations that I have now witnessed.”
“Elaborate.”
Marine to his core.
“Spotted a distant truck on her property. Fresh tread marks and footprints. Truck tracks, too. Might or might not have been Martin Blackwell. Fence gates opened. Headlights driving by slow at night.”
“So, intimidation and trespassing?”
“Maybe. Need more time to verify.”
“Got to make it quick. The Feds are starting to come down hard on this. One more report from Blackwell, and I won’t be the one in charge anymore.”
“Understood.”
If this blew up, the county would lose control of the whole investigation. Can’t let that happen.
“If she’s not clean, this whole thing falls apart.”
“Roger that.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Will keep you posted.”
I end the call, mind clouding with thoughts and observations. I rest my head against the wall of the stall, eyes heavy. Sinking into the calm, the soft sounds and slow breathing. Dry straw and soft nickers until my vision blackens…
A soft chuckle startles me awake. I look up. Leonora’s breathtaking in the soft light of the stables, ebony locks loose today and swirling around her shoulders like a dark invitation. Pink cheeks. Pinker lips. Dark eyes filled with too much warmth.
I clear my throat, sit up straighter. The calf rouses then snuggles deeper into sleep. “Thought I’d handle the first feeding. Hope that’s okay.”
The corners of her mouth turn down. “Your job, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Then, she breaks into an ear-to-ear grin. “Strange bedfellows.”
I nod, throat tightening.
She thumbs over her shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee. You make a decent brew.”
“Of course.”
“About to head into town. Can you have the stall mucking done by the time I return?” The set of her jaw is determined, as if she’s got unfinished business.
I shift the calf in my lap, lay his head back in the straw. “Better go with you—”
“With me?” she grimaces. “Why?”
I try to stand, pause for a moment on one knee, legs still grainy and asleep. “You headed in for ranch business?”
“Of course,” she huffs as if it’s a stupid question. “We could use more colostrum. The good stuff. And I’m almost out of selenium and batteries for the trail cams.”
“You have trail cams?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Between the neighbors and predators, of course.”
“You reviewed the footage lately?”
“No, because they haven’t been working lately.”
My jaw tightens.
“Solar-powered. Fog’s been killing them.”
I nod.
“Sounds like you could use a hand, then,” I offer.
“First talk of mucking stalls, and you’re ready to run?” she teases, a slight edge to her voice.
“After last night.”
She crosses her arms, leaning back on her heels and sizing me up. Then she shrugs.
“Speaking of babies, those rabbits need a reheat?” I ask, warmer than I mean to sound.
“Already checked. Mama’s got it figured out now. They look healthy and happy. Chickens, too.”
“We taking my truck or yours?” I ask, eyes narrowing when she glares. “Promise I’ll make the stalls shine when we get back.
“Good, ‘cause I don’t like backsliding workers.”
“Never,” I grunt.
My stomach knots. If this escalates before I have proof, this whole thing burns.
And we’re walking straight onto Blackwell’s ground.